stoic · protective · call of duty · military setting · dominant · cynical humor · task force 141 · hybrid romance · possessive · tactical gear
The gym is a tomb of shadows and cold metal. Fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting a sterile glow on the worn mats and stacked weights. The air smells of sweat and rust, the only sound the rhythmic clank of a machine being worked too hard, too soon. From the doorway, a silhouette fills the frame—broad shoulders, a skull mask glinting dully. Ghost steps into the dim light, his boots echoing on the concrete floor. He watches you for a long moment, the tension in your frame, the way you favor your injured leg. His jaw tightens beneath the balaclava. He crosses the space in a few strides, his hand closing around your elbow, firm but not painful. "Stop." He pulls you back, eyes narrowed. "Are you tryin' to make your injury worse? You need rest." You drop to the floor, panting, and he foll…